Figment
by Kimiz
Summary: He knew the moment he looked up he was going to regret showing, because the second he lifted his eyes, they ran through the crowded room and slammed into her. ShikaTema


**A/N: **Hey! I wrote this today, while I killed a chemistry class, after reading one of my favorite poems "Rococó", by Algernon Charles Swinburne. I thought it matched the possible secret forbidden affair atmosphere of ShikaTema, so I came up with this. It's a sort of experimental style, I'll coment on it later. I'm not quite satisfied with it. I had an idea, an inspiration, but couldn't really put it on the paper, but despite the frustration, I'm fond of it. So, enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Naruto isn't mine. Neither is En Tus Pupilas, by Shakira, that I heard the whole time while writing (I've been singing it so much my sister tries to punch me whenever I start with "Siento algo en ti, algo entre los dos…")

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><p>"<em>Where crushed by three days' pressure,<em>

_Our three days' love lies slain;_

_And earlier leaf of pleasure,_

_And latter flower of pain."_

_Rococó, Algernon Charles Swinburne_

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><p><strong>Figment<strong>

He laughed at something funny the brunette two chairs from him said, and averted his gaze to the crowd, searching for what she had sworn were two very flushed, very disheveled looking acquaintences who would soon be teased mercilessly.

What he found instead was a flash of gold, and he knew he was lost.

Because despite all the things he'd tell himself in the middle of the worst withdrawals, she was standing _right there_, looking beautiful in a damned silky black dress and her mess of golden curls falling on her shoulders, gleaming under the eery blue lights. He could remember running his fingers through that very same hair, pulling it desperately ou of its hairdo, burrying his face in those golden strands and feeling content. He watched warily as her wrist bent delicately, holding a cup of whatever it was she was drinking, twirling it almost distractedly, unconsciously (or maybe consciously) straightening her shoulders, leaning her head back a little, further exposing her neck.

He closed his eyes for a second in reminiscing. There were times where he would have kissed that neck, would have taken that leaning back as a signal, would have pulled her to him (hands running through the curves of her body, fingers clinging to the warmth of her golden skin…). He opened his eyes quickly, before the remembrance of the feel of that body pressed to his made him do something stupid. Like getting up and talking to her.

One of the people in his table said something and he tried to pay attention, but he couldn't. He was already caught in that natural binding spell she had on him. He was too entranced to care.

She laughed at something her companion said, shoulders shaking and eyes narrowed in mirth. He used to make her laugh (heart beating fast, feeling smug, so smug…), reveling in the thought that she was laughing _for_ him, not _at _him. And then she would stop laughing and smile. Just smile (green eyes shining, red mouth curling up, soft, so soft…). His heart would just about stop.

He would walk around with the smile of one who knows a secret and will never tell. He felt stupid now. If no one knew it had happened, how could he convince himself it had? What if it was all just a figment (a big, beautiful, terribly realistic figment…) of his imagination? What if it had all been a dream? What if it had been a lie (oh, cruel, devastating, heart-wrenching lie…), created by his brain in one of its rare moments of rest? Maybe it was better. Forgive and forget, run away and never look back (never knowing, never knowing…). If it had been a lie, it would be easy to let go.

In that moment, her eyes left the figure in front of her (that creature, that _man_, that _low life being_) to roam around the room (she looked bored, she looked _bored_, she looked _so _bored!). Before he had time to process that he should turn or duck, her eyes found him and their gazes locked.

It was as if he was eighteen again, hands sweaty and heart at his throat, trying to deny a thing his own head screamed it was true. For one second (two, three, four…) he held her look, and the thoughts came tumbling down (hands in her hair, lips on her shoulder, arms 'round his neck…) to mix with memories (his apartment, her apartment, somebody's apartment…) to the point where he couldn't tell which was which. The dull pain in his chest started throbbing again. Because it was true.

It was true, it was true, and he knew it and she knew it and who cares if the world doesn't know it? He can remember every trace of her face with the tips of his fingers. It was true, it was true, it was always true to him.

What a shame he'd never tell.

She knew those eyes and she knew that look, she had felt it glued to her the moment he walked in.. She had seen him walk in. Women always do.

She watched from the corner of her eye, how he tried to turn and flee, sharing a secret smile with her drink. Once a coward, always a coward and even after all those years… Still a coward.

She wondered, eyes locked to the charming fool standing before her stuck in an eloquent speech she only half-heard. A long time ago they would have seen each other, and on an unspoken agreement, would abandon their current activities to engage in considerably more enjoyable ones. She smirked in her cup. Good times, good times. Where did those times go?

She supposed to the same place that went the heart he handed over to her all those years ago. She unconsciously winced.

She had never meant for it to end, but she had never meant for it to go so far either. Because their love was great, indeed (with drama, and passion, and blood, and tears, and spite…) and their love was tragic (forbidden, forbidden and so complicated…) and their love was something come out of a book (a drama, a tragedy, a classic…), but they were not some romance's characters with the author on their side (against them, against them, _everything against them…_), and when it came down to it, her brothers came first, her career came first, her village came first, and his heart came last (always, always last…).

The man said something funny. She laughed, even if he was standing a few feet away, wiggling uncomfortably in his seat, pulling up walls and trying to mend his pride. She couldn't resist it. She wanted to catch him off guard one last time.

She turned to him and their eyes crossed, and the intensity of that stare sent an uncalled for shiver down her spine. She could feel the turmoil inside him, the doubt in his eyes, the memories they portrayed (cold nights, long nights, beautiful_ perfect _nights…). She wasn't sure hers didn't look the same. It felt like those times were back (furtive glances on the corridors, hands on hands under the tables…), ditching formals, killing work, meeting in secret after the sun was down (was up, was setting, was rising… Whenever, whenever…) She felt like a teenager, she felt like a fool (an idiotic, love-sick fool…) she felt like she had turned back time. But… She hadn't and she couldn't.

So she held his gaze for a moment and then looked away. Because it was true, it was true, and she knew it and he knew it and who cares if the world doesn't know it? She can remember every shade of color in his eyes. It was true, it was true, it had always been true to _them_.

What a shame he'd never tell.

What a shame she'd never let him.

**A/N:** So! The things in parenthesis, that was the style thing. I put them there to try and give the feeling that their thoughts were tumbling down on them because of the overwhelming emotions the sight of each other caused on them. Don't know if it looks confusing. I hope it passed the feeling. I'm still not sure how bad I like it, but I do like it a little bit. So. I hope you guys liked it. And go read the poem, it's really cool. Tell me what you think!


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